


The Twinkling Twirl of Tinsel

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas Lights, FACE Family, Light-Hearted, Lights, M/M, Oxford Street, Prompt#7, Protective England in a Fury, RusAmeHoliday, RusAmeHolidayPrompts, Secret Relationship, Sorry for Yesterday, That's not so secret anymore, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8774239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #7: LightsIt's a short piece, but I'm quite fond of it.  Enjoy Alfred sulking through London, and getting a warm surprise!





	

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Oxford Street in London has some of the most beautiful Christmas Lights and decorations I've ever seen in my life. If you're ever there around that time, don't hesitate to go see them, especially at night!

            The lights were taunting him.

            He eyed the gleaming, glittering stings and structures of light warily as he sulked. He’d been walking through the streets of England’s heart for hours now, sulking (not that he’d call it such). But really, what was the point of coming all the way here when it always culminated into something like this? At least it wasn’t as bad as last time…there were no citywide blackouts, at least…

            He’d only accidentally knocked over the Christmas tree; it hadn’t actually been his fault, Canada had shoved him into the damn thing, of course something would’ve happened! He sighed. It hadn’t mattered, in the end, whose fault it had been. Both he and Matt had been kicked out of the house until Arthur managed to fix the Christmas tree. And with their uncles there, it was really unlikely that they would get anything done until past midnight. He doubted his father would keep them out of the house if it took that long; the man could be stern, but he wasn’t unnecessarily cruel (he thought of the Revolution, and then 1812, and shivered; he revised that thought, not _anymore_ ).

            He glanced around from where he was moping – though he would never _call_ it that – and sighed again, with the lights still twinkling above them merrily, ignorant of his problems.

            He should probably move away from the massive throng of people; it was a not-so-good idea to be sulking, stationary, on Oxford Street a week before Christmas. He risked being run over by the hoard, stalked suspiciously by security, or besieged by sales people who were peering out predatorily at the throng from inside the comfort of a warm shop front. He eyed the familiar yellow-gold flags on the building he was leaning against before sighing; he supposed going into Selfridges wouldn’t kill him. It would certainly be warmer than hanging out here in the cold.

            And maybe he could get out of range of the gleaming, charming Christmas lights that danced upon everything the illuminated.

* * *

 

            Selfridges was buzzing, as it usually was, and as Christmas got closer, it got even more crowded. He had spent a good hour or so just wandering around aimlessly in the store, walking around glancing at the things on sale, or just humming as he meandered onwards. Now, though, his feet were starting to ache – he’d been walking since Arthur kicked them out in the early afternoon, and it was past dark – and he made his way towards the cafeteria he knew was at least up one level from where he was.

            It was only once he’d snagged a large cup of coffee – the gourmet type of coffee, imported beans and all, which made him smirk when he thought of Arthur’s vehement reaction every time he brought up the bitter drink and how his people, regardless, sold it in their stores for exorbitant prices with lines a mile long – and settled himself by the window overlooking Oxford Street and the brilliantly twinkling lights that illuminated the crowd of Christmas shoppers and street goers in the early night’s darkness.

            Like tinkling tinsel, the lights gleamed, draped from either side of the street to meet in the middle with one giant wreath formed of brilliant colors in a magnificent feat of architectural weaves. He sighed, sipping from his coffee mug as he tugged his jacket closer to his body; even though the store was appropriately heated for the season, sitting by the window would give anyone a chill.

            Suddenly, a thick, quilted jacket was draped across his shoulders, and a specialty brew sealed within a tin, wrapped tightly by a coffee warmer, was set down in front of him. He blinked and glanced up, catching warm violets watching him in amusement.

            “You’re looking down, _Fedya_ ,” the other said softly, concerned, but his eyes were sparkling in amusement.

            “When did you get here?” he exclaimed, feeling the smile curl on his lips as he stood to wrap his arms around the other, enthusiastically, “You said you were busy this Christmas!” That had been the reason he had – very reluctantly – agreed to stay with his father and family for Christmas this year, when he usually avoided London like the plague during this season. Put all of his family in the same room around holiday season and no one would walk away without something injured, even if it was only heavily injured pride.

            He’d also been keeping his relationship with Russia on the down low; they knew they’d get a lot of flack from the rest of the world if they revealed a relationship now, when their governments’ rivalries were heating up again. They lost a lot of opportunities to stay together, or share those special moments, but the secrecy was worth the moments they _did_ get to share together.

            He felt the arms twined around tighten lightly, before releasing him, though not entirely. He still stood within the circle of his partner’s arms, the other’s gloved hands settling comfortably on his hips. Ivan, surprisingly cautious of their present location, dropped a light kiss to his lips, but didn’t deepen it, and released him to join him at the table he’d been sulking at.

            Well, he certainly wasn’t going to sulk now.

* * *

 

            They were laughing as they strode down Oxford Street, away from Selfridges, where they’d spent a good amount of time meandering through the shop, arms around each other, and just _talking_ , enjoying the peace and warmth of each other’s presence.

            But the night was drawing to a close for many at the market, and people were slowly moving away to find their cars or their tube stations to make their way home. He and Russia strode arm in arm a few blocks down, where his lover had said he’d booked a space to stay in a hotel. The lights glimmered up ahead, the warmth at his side wrapped around him gaily, and he felt content.

            At least, he was, until they got to the hotel room.

            “Ack!” he yelped as Russia practically tackled him – and not in the _good_ way, at that – tugging something from his coat and wrapping it around his waist in the process. He managed to shove the other off, before he stumbled away, but was drawn back by whatever had been wound around his waist. _What the -?_

            It was a string of twinkling lights.

            He blinked, torn between completely stunned and utterly baffled, before Ivan was on him again.

            Around and around the room they went, America dodging and twirling around the larger nation’s grabs and tackles. And, unbeknownst to the younger nation, the length of the string of lights in Russia’s hand had grown shorter and shorter and shorter, as the distance between the two of them in their dancing around each other also grew shorter and shorter and shorter…

            Until Alfred tried to dodge a grab and tripped over himself.

            It hadn’t been until he was completely tangled in the twinkling lights masquerading as silver tinted tinsel that he realized this had been Russia’s intentions. The more he squirmed in the twirl of twinkling tinsel, the more the string of lights and gleaming silver tightened around his body, limiting his mobility even further. He did have some common sense, so he stopped wriggling to leave himself some space to breathe. But the glare he shot at his violet-eyed lover was far from nice.

            The other man studied his work and beamed proudly, sending a grin his way that made blood rush southwards, knowing what it meant. The ashy-haired nation slung his counterpart onto his shoulder and moved deeper into their suite, dumping him onto the bed, still fully bound in twinkling tinsel.

            Well, he thought as he watched the other approach, a predatory gleam in violet eyes, at least he wouldn’t freeze on Oxford Street, tonight.

            Then hands were on him, stripping him of his clothes, tightening the bonds, and sending an intoxicating head spiraling through his veins. And he couldn’t think of anything anymore.

* * *

 

 **BONUS/OMAKE:**  

            “What do you mean you don’t know where your brother is?” the verdant-eyed former empire said, a frown twisting his lips. France and Scotland glanced over from where they’d been immersed in conversation, catching sight of the darkening expression and the frown before glancing at each other and subtly scooting their chairs a little farther away from the other nation. England listened to Canada stutter over the phone with an increasing sense of dread mixed liberally with annoyance and worry. After a moment of silence once the other nation finished his explanation, the former empire sighed.

            “I’ll try his cell phone,” he said wearily, “get some rest, then, if you’re already booked for the night. Be here in the morning,” he instructed firmly, receiving Canada’s assent before he hung up the phone and allowed the dial tone to ring in his ears. He pulled the phone in front of him, hitting one of the speed dials before he brought it back up to his ear, listening to the ringing softly in his ear. France and Scotland twitched, trying to listen into what might come out from the other side of the phone.

            _Finally_ , England thought sourly when the phone finally connected, only to have his blood freeze when, instead of his son’s mischievous or tired voice, he heard an equally tired, “ _Da?_ ” come from a distinctly different voice over phone. A distinctly _Russian_ voice. He nearly dropped the phone, and whatever his expression showed, it was terrifying enough that France and Scotland decided retreat would be a good idea. They abandoned their conversation and moved towards the inner lounge space, leaving England hovering in the entrance hallway, an expression of mixed rage, confusion, and paternalistic fury twisting his face.

            “ _Russia_?!” he finally snarled, unsure what exactly to feel when he realized what might actually be going on – ignoring France’s lecherous look at the realization, coupled with Scotland’s bug-eyed look of disbelief – before he continued, rechecking the number he’d dialed just to be sure, “Why do you have America’s phone?”

            “ _Chto?_ ”he heard mumbled in the receiver before there was some shuffling on the other end, a few groans he could pick up – the kind he recognized America making whenever someone tried to wake him up after a night of insufficient sleep – before, he presumed, the cell phone was handed off.

            “Dad?” the voice over the phone asked, tired and barely covering a yawn, “Wha-What are you doing? It’s late,” came over the phone and England felt his temper spark.

            “No, poppet,” he said, voice deliberately calm, “I believe the question is ‘what are _you_ doing?’ With _Russia_ , of all people, America.” There was a sudden silence on the other end, then there was a loud thump, and a bitten off swear, before he heard the beginnings of a commotion develop.

            And then, the phone was cut off as America hung up on him.

            He blinked at the phone, mentally spluttering in outrage at the gall of his bratty little former colony, who was obviously in need of another lecture about what you did and didn’t do when you were on the phone with your _father_ nation. But on the surface, his eyes glinted menacingly as they stared at the phone in his hand – which inspired France and Scotland, drunk and persistent as they were usually, to quickly flee into the depths of the house where they were sure England would not follow them into – before he turned to the mint colored, winged bunny sitting on his shoulder calmly, watching a vein twitch in his temple while seeming to grin at him.

            “Can you find him, Mint?” he asked his longtime companion, the glint in his eyes reminding said companion about the long forsaken days of piracy and privateering, bloody red coats, golden grin and all. Mint grinned and hoped off the island nation’s shoulder, marking a path in the air for the irate nation to follow. Which he did, stalking steps and menacing gaze driving away no small number of would be muggers alongside innocent bystanders.

 

            A few blocks south of Oxford Street, in a hotel room that cost more than some people made in a week, America shoved his lover out of the bed they’d been sharing and leapt to pull his clothes on, working himself into quite the frenzy all the meanwhile. The irate Russian himself glared at the American, quite comfortable in the nude within the privacy of their suite.

            “I don’t know why you’re rushing,” the older nation grumbled, eyeing the love marked tanned skin that America was putting on display for him while trying to cover up (ironically taking twice as long as he usually needed to, not that Russia had any complaints). “It is not like England will magically appear if you speak of him, _dorogoy_.”

            “You don’t know him,” America hissed, tripping over the hem of his jeans as he yanked them up and buttoned them in place, “every time he calls, I swear he knows exactly where I am! It’s fucking insane, Vanya,” he admitted, vexed, and panicked all the same, “but he’s never _not_ found me.” _Especially when he’s pissed off_ , the younger nation added mentally.

            He moved into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it shut as he reached for a towel, some soap, and the sink faucet; he was going to do as much as he could to make sure he didn’t actually smell of sex when he ran into his father. The elder man wouldn’t let him out of his sight if he’d ever smelt it on him. He heard a knock in the main room, just as he flicked the faucet on, wetting the towel, and heard Russia get up to answer the door. Hopefully, the other had remembered to drape a robe over himself; it wouldn’t do to have the staff fainting because Russia had fun in playing with them, the sadist. The door’s lock clicked open in the room.

            Then, so did the safety of a gun.

            He felt himself freeze as that familiar accent growling at the Russian, who was taking great pleasure in taunting the irate Englishman with his answers. It wouldn’t be long before England made the logical leap to where he was, and he decided he was _so_ not suffering a lecture from his father today.

            So, he slipped out the open window behind him, crawled down the pillar he was clinging to on the outside of the hotel wall, and hooked himself into one of those twinkling twirls of light-up tinsel that had been woven between the buildings all over London. He tightrope walked across the light weave, grateful that, for once, it was so early in the morning that it was likely no one was actually paying attention to the mad man atop the Christmas lights. He hardly had time to be grateful, as he reached the other end, because a commotion erupted behind him, and he heard his father’s voice snarling and Russia’s voice taunting the former empire, and _lord_ why did he pretend to know _either_ of them?

            Nope, he wasn’t even going to let his subconscious answer that one.

            He just snuck down to street level and took a taxi back to England’s place. It was, after all, the last place anyone would ever think to look for him at.

            At least he’d get a good night sleep before he got the lecture.


End file.
